The moment where words that lived with me so long,
They stand at the departure gate of my lips,
And you know,
Once they turn their back,
It will be moments before they take flight,
To belong in someone else’s home.
Words, those gypsies,
Finding new homes,
Were they ever meant to depart,
And leave me alone?
They’re the children you give birth to,
And live with you for all those years,
Then one day, they leave you,
Awash with loneliness’s tears.
But a writer is fertile,
Always able to fall pregnant,
Our bellies are always swollen with words,
Waiting to give birth,
Always rotund, large of girth,
In one parable, one paragraph,
Back bent with the weight of the earth.
It’s a labour of love,
This labour of a lifetimes worth,
For the one line,
Sometimes a lifetime,
We’ll wait, we’ll search.
We’re not just writing, speaking, prattling,
With our words,
We’re giving birth,
To the earth.